


In a Place with No Frontiers

by VictoriaSkyeMarsters



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alana is a man, Anal Sex, French Indian War, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal with long hair, Hannigram - Freeform, Kissing, Last of the Mohicans AU, M/M, frederick is in love with Will, furtrapper!Hannibal, i thought she would enjoy being a general, light anal fingering out of necessity, major character death is NOT Will or Hannibal, smut smut smut, young!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6954562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaSkyeMarsters/pseuds/VictoriaSkyeMarsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Last of the Mohicans AU. Will Graham is the beautiful son of an English Colonel fighting the French in the 1757 New York territories. Hannibal is a fur trapper, trying to keep his head low and head west before the war can reach him. Naturally, their paths cross. </p><p>Written with love for my white son, Dame Dayo Day of the Dayo Day Clan. I hope you enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dayo!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Dayo%21).



> Even though this is technically a historical fic, my writing is based completely off of the film. I apologize for any blaring inaccuracies. Also, I'm afraid there are a few slightly racist moments and depictions of Native Americans in this story, so please note that this in no way reflects any of my own beliefs. I am merely here to spin a tale so I can make Will and Hannibal dress up in silly clothes and get it on. Thank you and enjoy!! 
> 
> Also, I apologize for any typing errors. I am my own beta, and I do my best. :)

-1757- 

 

Trees flash before his eyes, burning trails of green, blurred by speed as his feet fall and lift from the forest floor. Booted leather soles slap silently against stone and undergrowth and rich soil. The man moves like a spirit, navigating the winding trunks and coiling vines with easiness both practiced and natural. The air is humid, and it brings a sheen of sweat to his brow, dampening the hair hanging in a loose frame around his face. The silken locks of silver fly out behind him as he jumps over the downed tree and into a shallow ravine. He spares no moment adjusting the soft leathers slipping from his shoulders; instead, he keeps running, hands helping the garment find the rest of its way down his broad chest, letting it slip over his midriff, and tying it there by the sleeves. All the while, he runs, eyes glinting maroon in the dappled forest sunlight, never losing sight of his quarry. 

He is bare-chested and magnificent, and although his breath is ragged from exertion, it is as quiet as the breeze that does not blow. Ahead, only yards away, is his prey, and with one smooth motion he is pulling the musket from its sling around his back and aiming. He sucks in one steadying breath as his eyes find their target, a second as he fingers the trigger, and then he braces himself and squeezes. 

A blast flares from the barrel, the shot echoes, and the animal falls. 

Hannibal is finally still. 

When he approaches, his steps are careful, slow, and he is mindful of the beautiful death sprawled atop a bed of grass and twigs. As the last heave of air shakes from the creature’s trembling chest, Hannibal kneels beside it and his head bows respectfully down. He touches a finger to his lips, passing it over his eyes, and then presses his hand against his own naked chest before placing it on the neck of the dead stag. He whispers, “Thank you for your sacrifice,” and closes his eyes. The majestic creature’s hide rubs like velvet beneath the pads of Hannibal’s fingers and he smiles. Its fur will bring a fine price. 

 

The wilderness is lush and ample, and dew clings to the leaves, the sparkling droplets barely disturbed by the lone man who brushes past. Even with a lifeless stag slung across his shoulders, Hannibal’s grace is unimpeded. The weight of the animal is heavy and uncomfortable, and sweat is dripping from the tips of his hair, but it is hardly the first time he has carried an animal this way, and he is strong. The path he walks would be obfuscated by nature’s cloak to anyone else, but Hannibal knows his way; he follows this hidden trail at least once a year, to the traders’ encampment along the frontier. While he is there, he will trade his furs and skins. The stag on his back will keep his stomach full for weeks.

The sky falls to twilight as Hannibal slings his treasure over the wooden fence. Next, he pulls himself over and lands soundlessly on the other side. In the center of the large clearing where he has stopped is a humble wooden construct, a cabin, its windows glowing as golden as the fireflies lifting off from the dewy, tall grass. Hannibal does not try to mask his approach, not here where he wishes his presence known, and, in a few moments, shadows are bunching on the front porch of the cabin. Hannibal sees the silhouette of muskets rising and grins. 

He lifts a hand and calls out, his voice ringing loud and amiable across the field, making the shadows lower their weapons. “Jack Crawford!”

A hearty laugh reaches his ears at the same time Hannibal reaches the steps of the porch. Crawford is no longer a shadow, but Jack, Hannibal’s friend and frontiersman. 

“Hannibal,” Jack says warmly, his hand clasping the fur trapper’s shoulder. 

“Jack, how are you?” Hannibal asks, his lips stretched into a wide smile as he is led inside. Another man shuffles in behind them, and without glancing back, Hannibal knows who it is, knows him by scent: lemons, firewood, and gunpowder. “Good to see you, Dimmond.”

Anthony Dimmond laughs loudly and leads Hannibal by the elbows to sit at the long table, where supper is being divvied out by a beautiful woman with thick curls and large almond eyes. 

“I almost didn’t expect you back this year, Hannibal,” she says as she passes him a bowl of stew. Jack Crawford steps up behind her and envelops her in his arms, pressing a kiss to her neck that makes her swat at him playfully. “I thought you’d be settled down with a wife by now.”

At this, Hannibal laughs, accepting the mug of cider offered him from Dimmond, who has seated himself in the chair beside him at the table. “How could I marry when the love of my life is already taken, Bella?” he asks, tipping the mug to sip at the sweet drink. 

“Watch out,” Jack threatens jokingly, and he gives Bella a loving squeeze before releasing her to tend the pot over the fire. 

“Hannibal cannot simply find a nice girl and marry her,” Dimmond says after a deep drink, his voice draped in serious thought. 

“And why is that, Anthony?” Bella asks from the fireplace, her thin black eyebrows quirked high on her forehead. Hannibal cannot keep the smirk that pulls at his lips, nor does he try. He looks between his friends with pure amusement. 

“For starters,” Dimmond purrs, eyes shining bright with deviance, “a nice girl would not know what to make of our dear trapper, wild man that he is.”

Jack Crawford nods knowingly, coming to sit at the head of the table, spoon in hand to tackle his wife’s stew. “Anthony’s right.”

“Of course I am!” the tall man exclaims, stretching his arms high above his head and bringing them down to wrap around Hannibal’s shoulders, still bare. “What would he possibly say? ‘My love, my sweet, come live with me in the woods and we can make love beneath the stars at night and pick the ticks from each other’s skin in the morning.’”

Bella stokes the fire with a lighthearted humph. “Half of that doesn’t sound too bad.”

Hannibal raises his pale eyebrows at his tableside companions, winking at Jack and saying, “Watch out,” to the sound of much laughter. 

When Bella brings her bowl to the table, they all dig in, the occasional hum of approval piercing the comfortable air, the only other sound beside clattering wooden utensils and polite slurps. Hannibal wrinkles his nose at the watery broth and laments the underuse of spices, but says nothing of it, returning Bella’s smile when her eyes find his across the table. 

With full bellies, they sit contentedly in the warmth of the fire. Only then does Hannibal bring forth the question at the forefront of his mind. 

“I’m always pleased to see you, Dimmond,” he begins, lacing his fingers into an elegant steeple beneath his chin, “but what are you doing here?” 

“I’m here with my militia,” the man answers proudly. “Under orders from General Bloom.”

Bella scoffs at the name, and Hannibal cocks his head at her questioningly. She sighs and looks at her husband as she speaks. “Bloom is here to hustle our husbands and sons into fighting their war.”

“Bella,” Jack says, his voice deep with comfort. 

“It’s true,” Dimmond confirms with a careless shrug. “The French are only growing more confident and our English fathers are starting to look to the frontier militia for assistance. It’s a bit of an ego stroke, if I’m being honest.”

“What will you do?” Hannibal asks his friend, whose chest is puffed out with charming arrogance. 

“It’s not up to me alone to decide,” Dimmond responds with a toothy grin as he tosses his long hair over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, after the trading and frivolities, I will speak with my militiamen and hear what all have to say on the matter.”

A sound of discontent breaks free from the head of the table, and Hannibal sets his glance on Jack’s disgruntled face. “England thinks they can govern us,” Jack begins, “when we of the frontier have earned the right to govern ourselves. I don’t know what others of the militia will decide, but I, for one, will not leave my family defenseless while I ride off to fight a war that is no concern of mine.” He reaches for his wife’s hand and she grasps it eagerly. 

Hannibal watches the exchange curiously, and then returns his attention to Dimmond, who is tipping more drink into both their mugs. “To each his own,” Dimmond says, and then his eyes shoot up to catch Hannibal’s. “What will you do?”

“After I trade my furs, I will head west to lands less ravaged by war,” Hannibal answers without hesitation. He has no interest involving himself with the petty struggles of the white man. “And I will hope that, when next I return here for trade, the fighting will have ceased and we can make merry without mention of generals and the god-forsaken British.”

Dimmond narrows his eyes slightly, and Hannibal nudges him gently in the side. “Worry not. You are a colonial, my friend, and always a topic of worthy conversation.”

The rest of the evening passes with friendly talk: yes, Hannibal’s haul this year is substantial, and yes, Bella assures with a twinkle in her eye, the Crawford homestead is soon to be expanding. Once their drinks are drunk and their lids are heavy, they go to sleep, Hannibal taking a pallet of furs by the fire. 

 

At dawn, more fur trappers have arrived and frontiersmen have set up their humble trading stations. Hannibal, always quick to rise, has done away with his stag skins and antlers, as well as the rest of his hides, and by mid-morning he is free to pass his time in play beneath the jovial yellow sun. 

His grip on the lacrosse stick is firm as he runs through the field, a team of happy, sweaty men, Colonial and Mohawk alike, trudging after him with bellowing woops and clattering sticks. Hannibal’s long tunic of downy buckskin billows in the breeze he creates with his lean, muscular body as his arms sweep with the stick and hit the ball across the field. Dimmond slams into his side, and they share a chuckle before racing one another across the grass. He is wiping the sweat from his brow when the pounding of horse hooves pause the game.

Riding high on a white steed is a fully equipped British officer. Against the wild backdrop of trees and sweaty Colonials, he looks genuinely out of place, and the powdered wig beneath his tri-pointed hat does little to quell the befuddlement of his appearance amongst the traders.

Hannibal gives Dimmond an exasperated look as the man begins to bark from his beast’s saddle. “By order of His Royal Highness, King George II, the Colonial Militia will report to Albany for service to your motherland.”

Jack Crawford stands near the front of his cabin and steps up to the porch before speaking, to be seen and heard by all gathered. “Men of the frontier aren’t to be bullied into leaving their families,” he says. 

The officer on the horse sneers. “You would refuse the rule of your king?”

“England’s king, not mine,” Jack says, his voice booming with stubborn authority. 

“You could be hanged for speaking that way,” spits the officer.

Hannibal crosses the grass quickly to stand beside Jack. “These men have paved their way from nothing, through no help of England’s king. To ask them to abandon their women and children in order to fight on the front is preposterous.”

The officer looks Hannibal up and down, his gaze slow and rudely appraising. “And who are you a subject to? You do not look like a Colonial, and you are clearly not Mohawk.”  
Hannibal smiles. “I do not call myself subject to much at all,” he counters, and a wave of laughter sweeps across the field. 

“Hannibal’s word is gospel on this frontier,” Jack says, his hands fisting at his sides. “His reputation is certainly better among us Colonials than General Bloom’s.”

Dimmond speaks up now, taking a step toward the man on horseback. “I agree with much of what Jack Crawford and Hannibal say, but I still believe we owe England our allegiance, so I will meet with your General Bloom in Albany tomorrow.” The officer nods his approval, and Dimmond turns in a circle while he continues. “Any who wish to join me in the fight against the French are welcome to do so.”

“And any men who wish to hold up with their families are welcome to my land,” Jack Crawford adds. Bella stands in the cabin doorway with her arms folded over her stomach and her eyebrows pinched slightly. 

Hannibal shakes his head and feels at the leather pouch tied to the belt around his waist. He is lightened of spirit by its weight, full of coins in payment for his furs. Soon he will head west and leave these men to their mortal squabbling. 

 

Major Frederick Chilton feels nauseated from the constant jostling of the carriage in which he rides, but he shuts his eyes to the sick sensation and holds his hand across his breast pocket. He can feel the circular hardness beneath the itchy red fabric of his uniform, and he lets his eyes flutter open when he pulls the silver locket from its hiding place. His deft fingers click it open, revealing the miniature of the face kept safely within its metallic embrace. Bright blue eyes seem to stare right through him beneath a curl of thick black lashes. Frederick can hardly bear to look at the angelic face in his hands for more than a few moments before carefully closing the locket and returning it to its resting place over his heart. 

Sounds from outside the carriage alert him of his nearness to town, and he knows that after his meeting with General Bloom, he will be looking upon the angel in person instead of in a meager artist’s rendition. It has been months since Frederick has seen William, and he wonders earnestly whether or not he will be able to look upon that face and not blush with want. He doubts it. One does not merely look at William Graham; one basks in his presence, odd as it is at times. 

After a few more miles of tortured bumpiness, Frederick’s carriage pulls to a stop, and he exits his covered confines speedily, thankful for the breathable Albany air and the unmoving ground beneath his booted feet. With a moment’s effort at straightening his uniform and shoulders, Frederick lifts his chin and enters the building on the street before him. 

The room is a touch gloomy, he thinks, standing at attention with only the light of a handful of oil lamps to illuminate the stern looking man seated behind a fine oak desk. Frederick tries not to be insulted that his presence does not even call for the other officer to stand in greeting, but it is difficult, and he finds his nerves are already grating thin as General Bloom waves a dismissing hand at him and then leans back languidly in his chair. 

“Major Frederick Chilton reporting, sir,” he says, like the devoted, respectful officer he is, and he stares straight ahead in wait of a response. 

General Bloom does not tell him to be at ease, seeming to relish in Frederick’s fierce stoicism. “Welcome, Major Chilton. You’re just in time for the show.”

Frederick furrows his brow and inhales quickly, readying to speak, but a man stepping up from behind him brings him pause. 

“The Colonial Militia reporting, as per your request, General Bloom,” says the man, whom Frederick finds to be tall and devilishly handsome, with dark hair graying at his temples and a fine paisley scarf tucked around his neck. 

“Excellent,” says General Bloom. “What say you of your orders?”

“My men and I have spoken, and the only way we will fight for England is with this sole condition,” said the militiaman. 

General Bloom turned an ear toward him with interest. “And that condition would be?”

“That if need be, if any of our families are known to be in danger and in need of protection, we’ll be given leave to return to them.”

“That certainly sounds like a fair condition to me, Mister Dimmond,” General Bloom says with a smile. “The crown agrees to your terms.”

The man called Dimmond nods his head with the smallest of bows. “Then you have yourself a militia, General,” he says, and with a last glance over his shoulder at Frederick and Bloom, he saunters from the building. Frederick notes the bounce in his step as he walks across the sunny street with a minutia of distaste, and then turns back to the General, who is regarding him with an unmistakable look of boredom. 

“Pardon me for saying so, General,” Frederick says with barely contained disagreeableness, “but I have never seen such a shocking occurrence throughout my entire journey from London to Albany as I have seen here.” He takes a deep breath to steady his anger before continuing. “The crown compromising with Colonials? British rule compromises with no one, let alone dirty frontiersmen.” 

General Bloom laughs away Frederick’s haughtiness with a particularly well-groomed levity. “I know, I know, but that’s how one must deal with these Colonials. They all want compromise and imagined autonomy. Do not fret overly much, Major,” Bloom continues, his ashen wig sitting pristinely curled atop his pompous head. “In all likelihood, we will not even make use of this frontier militia. The French simply aren’t considerable opponents. They’d rather sit around and make love with their faces than fight.”

The lewd remark brings a spasm to Frederick’s jaw. “That is good, since I am to escort Mr. Graham to the Colonel at Fort William Henry at daybreak tomorrow.”

“Yes, that’s right, you are. Colonel Graham is holding William Henry with ease, and my regiment will march to Fort Edward this afternoon,” says General Bloom, his light blue eyes darting behind his shoulder where a man stands in the shadows. “You will escort General Graham’s son to the fort, and Hobbs will be your guide.”

The man in shadow steps forward, just enough to fall into the circle of Bloom’s lamplight. Frederick takes in the appearance of Hobbs with a shudder; he is tall, lanky, and pale for a native, and his presence chills something deep in Frederick’s gut. But he nods at Hobbs, and then at General Bloom, and then he excuses himself. This is not his only meeting planned for the day, after all, and someone he yearns to see will be waiting for him in the courtyard, and Frederick cannot bear to make him wait for long. 

 

The courtyard smells of apples, and Will lifts his head to the clear blue sky, his plush pink lips parting on a sigh. He tries ignoring the looks cast in his direction, but he is tired, both of body and of mind, and he throws an icy glare at the produce man eyeing him across the fruit barrels. The man cowers beneath Will’s impenetrable gaze, and retreats back beneath his work of unloading apples into sellable crates. Will crosses his arms over his chest, wishing he could curl into himself until he disappeared completely, but he can never wholly disappear, and so the stares are as ceaseless as the maladies of his mind. 

From a distance, Will Graham is beautiful. His youthful body is slight, lithe, and cuts a pretty figure in his silken garments of long coats and shining, floral-print vests. The Colonel’s son has dark, curling hair that has never touched a powdered wig, and only the slightest beginnings of scruff along his ivory cheeks and upper lip. Excepting said roughness, his skin is as supple, smooth, and white as a girl’s, and, indeed, many hold his beauty to be above much of London’s female society. When one draws nearer the young man, his beauty becomes a shock to the system, with his perfectly shaped lips and large, doe-ish eyes of indefinable blue. Even his nose is a thing to be praised, with its strangely asymmetrical nostrils that somehow only add to the charm of the face as a whole. His jaw is sharply squared and wide, his neck is long and elegant. The list of his physical charms is seemingly infinite, and if one wished, one could fill a scroll with praise of this one boy’s beauty, and some did just that, from the spiraling curls across his brow to the tips of his cherub’s toes. Indisputably, Colonel Graham’s son is a vision. 

It is only when he speaks that the angelic delusion shatters. For all of his loveliness, a dark cloud hangs over Will’s perfect head, rendering him a stain on London’s high society. It is the cruelest tragedy and juiciest scandal. “Haven’t you heard? Colonel Graham’s son is a lunatic.” And Will supposes it is true, his madness. As long has he can remember, he has been plagued with a peculiar wrongness, seeing unspoken truths and feeling unvoiced thoughts. No one wants him around, for he brings with him an eerie unpleasantness that “keeps people from their comfort,” or so he is told.  
It has always been so, but after puberty, Will’s strangeness took full grasp of his being, and now he can hardly tolerate those around him. They are as much a blight to him, as he to them, and he knows wholeheartedly that the only thing that kept him from the madhouses in London had been the high position of his doting father, who blessedly refused to send him away. And when Will had been summoned from London to join the Colonel in the British Colonies, it was an unabashed relief. He had hoped in this new place, out of the watchful London eye, he might go unnoticed and undisturbed, but, of course, his reputation has preceded him. Colonel Graham’s lunatic son has the devil in him, and he’s here to make the apples rot and the red men rape their daughters. He knows when he looks at the produce man that is what they say of him, beauty be damned. If anything, his looks are a curse, as they first draw in the attention he so fears, only to betray him when people do not like what is truly to be seen.

Will is pondering such thoughts when the steps sound at his back, and when he turns to face the man for whom he has been waiting, he tries to fix a smile to his face, though he can feel how strained it must appear, so seldom do his lips twist into such cheerful expressions. 

“Frederick,” he says with all the amiability he can muster, and he allows the man to step close and wrap his arms around him in a familiar embrace. Of all the people Will dislikes, Frederick is perhaps the least offensive, but the close contact still makes his face contort into a grimace, and he is thankful at his release, even though it does not come quick enough for his liking.

“Will,” the Major says fondly, stepping away but remaining close, his hands lingering on surprisingly broad yet somehow still delicate shoulders. “How long have you been in Albany?”

“For weeks and weeks,” responds Will. Weeks and weeks of being cloistered away in his father’s house, whiling away the time reading and staring out the windows, waiting for the day, this day, when Frederick would arrive and escort him to the Fort to rejoin his father. When Will’s father is near, no one dares whisper of Will strangeness. He aches for that protection now, feeling every eye on his person with keen clarity, including Frederick, who is looking at him like the last sweetmeat on a dinner party tray.

“Shall we have some tea?” Frederick asks kindly, and Will has no choice but to accept, and though he allows Frederick to twine his elbow with his own, he is discomforted by the touch, and counts the seconds until he is free again.

As it turns out, tea is to be taken in the center of the meadow behind General Graham’s town home. A table is already set, and Will wonders how Frederick found the time as he lets himself be led to sit among the doilies and china. It is a fine, sunny day, and a breeze whips the white table cloth into a harmless frenzy, and Will can see that this annoys Frederick as he leans over the table to pour tea into Will’s cup. Frederick is easily annoyed, but he seldom voices his annoyances, and that is one thing Will likes about him. It makes them similar in a queer way, both having learned early on to quiet their instinctual responses for the sake of decency and keeping with prim British etiquette. 

A bit of the steaming liquid sloshes free of the teacup, and Will realizes that Frederick is not merely annoyed by the blameless wind, but nervous. His hands are trembling as he sets down the teapot, and once he seats himself in his chair, he spends several long moments adjusting his jacket and fidgeting with his legs, crossing them and uncrossing them. Finally, he tucks in his chair as far as it will go beneath the table with him still in it and folds his hands into his lap. 

Will feels it welling within the man across from him, the need to speak, to confess, and he waits patiently for Frederick to summon the strength. He does not wait with anticipation, because he already knows what it is the Major will say, and he does not want to hear it, but he will hear it all the same. 

Half of Will’s tea is sipped and gone by the time Frederick coughs needlessly into his sleeve and begins. “I would like to take care of you,” he says, and Will inwardly praises the steadiness of the man’s voice, but offers up no direct response, only a minute tilt of his head. Frederick’s face reddens, and it is not a look Will finds entirely unbecoming, nor does it live on the face of a man he would wish to see every day. “I know we cannot be legally wed,” Frederick continues, “but I wish for nothing more than to be your husband in every sense of the word.” He flourishes a hand from his lap and reaches for Will’s, but Will flinches and pulls it away before he can be grasped. 

The look of annoyance flashes in Frederick’s eyes again for the uncontrollable young man sitting like a marble statue before him. Will futilely wishes the proper response to such proposals was utter silence and abrupt relocation. As it is, Frederick remains in his direct vicinity with an air of immovability, and Will knows the suspended moment will stretch on and on until he ends it. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he begins, and his voice is as light as the wind rustling through his curls. “I’ve known you since we were children, Frederick, and, of course, I’m very fond of you.” He lowers his eyes to study the intricately patterned doily, and then looks up at the man dolefully. “I wish I could say otherwise, but I’m afraid my feelings for you do not go beyond friendship.”

“Is that such a poor stepping stone? Many successful couplings begin with friendship.”

“Yes, some say that is the way of it,” Will agrees. 

“Then agree to be with me, and I know in time we will make the most splendid couple in London,” Frederick pleads. 

“I don’t know.”

“If you do not know, let someone you trust, someone who cares for you, decide what is best,” Frederick says. “Will you at least consider that?” He pauses, looking at Will with glistening eyes. “Please. Consider that.”

Will nods, because he knows not what else he can do to appease the man in near tears at his heartlessness. “I will,” he says, barely above a whisper, and Frederick smiles at him as if he’s just been promised the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit violent in this chapter. And then a bit sexy. But not "archive warning" sexy yet. That will be coming next chapter. ;)

The steady beat of drums fills the air as Will, Frederick, and a troupe of the sixtieth regiment make their way along the narrow forest path. At the front of the procession walks Hobbs, whose face is marked with streaks of black paint, and Will is wary of the way Frederick keeps glancing in their guide’s direction. He sits on horseback, as does Frederick, but most everyone else in their group marches on foot. Will glares at the drummer boys in the back of the lineup and sends up silent prayers for silence, which only comes once they are deep within the tree line and the sun has been replaced by cool shade. 

But even with the cover of the trees, Will is hot, and he doesn’t know how the officers and soldiers can stand the bulking weight of their uniforms. He is dressed for riding today, but his attire is as elegant as always. His coat is green, and his boots are tanned and high over cream-colored trousers. His neck is uncharacteristically bare, as he has removed his crimson cravat and shoved it unceremoniously into his vest pocket, drenched in sweat as it is. No, Will does not feel well in the least, and when Frederick turns to look him over, as he is wont to do every few seconds or so, the Major’s eyes pop. 

“Are you ill?” he asks Will, who wavers slightly on top of his horse. 

“Could we rest soon?” asks Will sheepishly. After so much time at rest in his father’s quarters, off his feet and out of the sun, he has grown unused to exercise and fresh air, and the onslaught of the morning’s activities has him reeling slightly with overstimulation. 

Frederick nods emphatically, and clicks his tongue to urge his horse forward. Will can see him trotting beside the guide, Hobbs, where he remains for several minutes as words are exchanged. When Frederick returns to Will’s side, he wears a frown on his face. 

“Our guide insists we travel two more leagues before stopping, where there is water and a decent clearing. Can you manage it?” 

“Of course,” Will says. “I do not wish to be any trouble.”

They ride on and Will turns his head, seeking to penetrate the depths of the forest, though expecting to glean nothing but green and more green. What he does see draws a gasp from his chest, and he twists in his saddle to keep his eyes on it as long as possible: a great stag lurking in the shadows, so close he could reach out a hand and touch it if he wished. Its eyes flash red, and its skin seems to boast an unusual shine, as though feathers ruffle its hide instead of fur. Just as quickly, it is gone, lost to the shadows once more, and Will sits straight in his saddle and fixes his eyes ahead, his cheeks slightly less pale than they were before. 

Half an hour passes, and Will waves a fan over his face to cool the sweat dripping in rivulets down his brow. Up ahead, he spies Hobbs walking, though he is no longer leading the party but heading in the opposite direction, and in a few seconds, he is passing Will, his eyes glued to some middle-distance. Frederick scowls at him as he walks by and opens his mouth as if to ask him something, but when he sees Will watching, he reconsiders his words and does not speak at all. And so everyone just watches Hobbs as he walks towards the end of the procession, entirely un-protested. 

Will feels an unusual discord in the pit of his stomach as he turns his head to watch Hobbs, now behind him and still walking. But it is voicing feelings like this, feelings he has no business feeling, that has spoiled Will’s reputation, so he remains silent and does nothing but watch. 

Almost at the rear of the regiment now, Will sees Hobbs, the guide’s wrist twitching marginally at his side until something gleaming slips from his sleeve into the palm of his hand. Will cannot make out what it is, nearsighted as he is, but the reflection of it brings to mind the glint of a pocket watch, and so when Hobbs is gripping the tomahawk in his fist, Will is thinking the man wishes to know the time of day and does nothing. 

A soldier glances at Hobbs as he nears and offers him a polite smile of acknowledgment just as the crude tomahawk is raised and buried in one sure stroke into the soldier’s unsuspecting neck, downing him in an instant. A spray of arterial blood speckles Hobbs’s black face paint with dashes of red, and there is a single horrifying instant where no one reacts at all. 

And then there is chaos; it erupts as Frederick calls the regiment to arms, and in the same space of breath Hobbs hollers, a mighty, echoing war cry that bounces off the trees and rushes at Will’s eardrums with sickening menace. His tone is murderous and it sends Will’s mount whinnying and thrashing its head. Will holds tight to the horse’s mane as it bucks, and as soon as he is able, he slips free of the saddle before he can be thrown. 

The forest path, King George Road, serene and green only moments before, is now a killing field. Will looks on, mesmerized, as men ooze from the cover of the trees, their faces painted black like Hobbs. They are the natives of the wilds, Will recognizes, but they are not the friends of the traders and Colonials he has seen in Albany. Their faces are fixed with hatred as they stream down the incline into the road, as though they are wearing demonic masks. More weapons are held aloft in their hands, some the same as Hobbs’s, others different, all effectual, and all now stained with the blood of the sixtieth regiment taken so diabolically off guard. 

Frederick grabs Will by the waist and ushers him to the side of the road, throwing him down into the tall grass. Then the Major brandishes his musket and strikes a protective stance in front of him. Will watches, horrorstruck, as a wild man rushes at them with a manic bellow, and Frederick fires, blasting him with a shot to the stomach that sends him crashing onto his back. Death permeates the air, it is thick with it, and Will gags behind a trembling, lifted hand. 

Gun smoke hovers above the scene, and, to Will, it is like a dream. Frederick remains steady before him, trading his musket for his belt knife when another wild man runs at them. Will holds his breath and stares as Frederick ducks the man’s blow and then parries with his blade, slicing into flesh and kicking the man to the ground. Past this immediate violence, Will is taken by a secondary scene, a red-coated officer on his knees, a hand fisted into his hair, a victorious whooping cry as the man with a painted face digs his knife into skin and rips, stripping the officer of his scalp in one ripping motion. Beyond that is one of the drummers being held in an intimate embrace, a knife dragging along his throat. A rush of blood pours from the gaping wound, silencing his playing forever and answering Will’s previous prayer. 

Will scurries back as Frederick beats down another assault and the body falls at his feet, the bloody face a macabre juxtaposition to the still-clean velvet of Will’s heeled shoes. He swallows past the lump in his throat and forces his head back up. Dark sweeps of hair fall over his eyes and through their curtain he glimpses Hobbs, whose gaze is fixed so steadily on Will it brings his entire body to shivering, like he’s been plunged into ice water. Worse, Will cannot look away, and he is frozen and useless on the ground, even as Hobbs lifts a musket and levels it directly at him. Frederick does not see; he is preoccupied, struggling with a man and his stone axe. Will loses himself in Hobbs’s eyes, seeing only hatred within their depths, and he knows he is about to die. 

Suddenly, miraculously, another figure breaks from the trees, drawing Hobbs’s attention away from Will and Will’s attention away from Hobbs, and they are both taken in by the newest addition to the skirmish. 

To Will, he looks like a god, golden skinned and bare-chested, leaping over gored bodies like an elk, wielding a tomahawk in one hand. At first, Will thinks him another enemy, until he brings the weapon down on one of the natives, crushing his skull. And in the next instant, he is whipping around and striking a second wild man in the throat, a third in the gut. Hair flows out around his head as he moves, silver as starlight, and Will cannot tear his eyes away. He does not even notice Hobbs, aiming his musket once again, straight for him. 

But Hannibal sees Hobbs, sees the gun angling toward the pale man in the grass, a dark haired, breath-stealing beauty, and before Hobbs can fire his weapon, Hannibal runs before the target, his own musket lifted in front of his eyes, leveling at Hobbs. They stare at one another, the two wild men, and as Hobbs fires, Hannibal crouches down to one knee. The shot misses, and when the smoke clears, Hobbs is gone, the trees through which he’s vanished shaking in his wake.

Frederick turns from his felled opponent to find Hannibal kneeling in front of Will with his musket, and he rushes at them. Will has sense enough to lift his hand, rising unsteadily to his feet in time to hold Frederick back. Behind them, Hannibal has risen and is surveying the area with an eye of trained scrutiny. Frederick raises his eyebrows at Will, and at the palm spread over his chest, stopping him. 

“Don’t hurt him,” Will says breathlessly. “He saved me.”

Frederick frowns, and Will turns to glimpse his savior. It is then he realizes that the attack has ended. They three are the only ones left standing on the road. Everyone else is dead. 

The silver haired man is replacing the musket around his back and turning to face him. Will inhales sharply when their eyes meet for the first time. He is, undoubtedly, the most handsome man Will has ever seen, with striking cheekbones and deep-set eyes, dark as night but catching sparks of red in the scant sun. His mouth is perfectly shaped, even as it is drawn into a severe line. Will cannot look away, and he has to remind himself to breathe as he wavers, suddenly faint. But the mysterious man is already looking past him, turning his attention to Frederick. He motions to the Major, and they walk a ways off from Will, speaking softly to one another. 

“Who is the boy?” Hannibal asks Frederick. 

Frederick, who is watching Hannibal with avid wariness, shoots a look back at Will, who is staring daggers at the men excluding him. 

“That’s William Graham,” Frederick answers carefully. “Colonel Graham’s son.”

Hannibal nods. “Why did that man try to murder him?”

“Murder William?” 

“Yes, the man with the musket had picked him out specifically. Do you know of any blood vengeance? Does Colonel Graham have enemies?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” answers Frederick, frustrated. “Though it seems trust in our guide was greatly misplaced.”

“I would say so. You have been attacked by a Huron war party,” Hannibal says. He walks to the few horses standing in the middle of the road and slaps their sides, sending them running in a panic down the path. 

This knocks Will from his trance, and he runs up to Hannibal. He has to look up into his face, being several inches shorter, and it makes him flush. “Why did you do that? We need them!”

Hannibal steadies his gaze at Will and blanches, seeing the entirety of him for the first time. He is older than he had initially guessed, but no more than nineteen. And more than that, he is devastatingly pretty. Blue eyes crash into him, though they skillfully avoid meeting his own eyes directly. Instead, they fix lower, to Hannibal’s mouth, and Hannibal grins slightly before answering. 

“The horses will be easily tracked, and they will be looking for you,” Hannibal says. “Or did you want every Huron this side of the Hudson to know exactly where you are?”

Will works his mouth open, but cannot speak. He knows the man is right. He feels the truth of his words, but he is still angry, stranded with no horse and no guide in the middle of the wilderness, bodies splayed around his feet. 

And then Frederick asks the question Will has not yet thought to ask. 

“What is your name?”

“Hannibal,” he answers, turning from Will and bending down to rifle through the pockets of the dead. He collects a few coins into his hands, and a horn of gunpowder, which he slings across his shoulder guiltlessly. “You’ll want to head back now, try to get back to Albany before it gets dark. If you stay off the road and keep quiet, you should make it back safely. The rest of the Huron party will be ahead, not behind.”

Frederick shakes his head. “We were headed to Fort William Henry. I’m to deliver Mr. Graham to his father.”

Hannibal cocks his head, and his eyes wrinkle at the sides as they squint, considering. “I can take you as far as the Fort.”

Frederick places a hand on Will’s lower back, moving them both forward. “I would be in your debt, scout.”

“I’m not your scout,” Hannibal says, turning from him and leading the way forward. He calls over his shoulder, “The Fort is a night and a day away. Follow me.”

Will is holding onto Frederick’s arm as they follow behind, stepping over the dozens of dead bodies in their path, but he hardly notices them now. He only has eyes for the man walking ahead, heading into the trees. Will hastily lets go of Frederick’s arm and follows Hannibal into the darkness, his heart thumping violently in his chest.

 

The day grows even hotter as it wears on, and Will is sweating profusely beneath his coat. The humidity has its clutches fastened around Will’s hair, and it springs wildly, unkempt, curly, and damp around his face. 

It seems as if they walk forever, the terrain relentlessly unpredictable and hazardous beneath his feet, and Hannibal does not slow his pace to wait for him. They reach steep rocks beside the river, where a small waterfall leads to tumultuous, roiling rapids, and Hannibal begins to climb the rock face, finding his clutch easily and lifting himself up with strong arms. 

When Will reaches the rocks, Frederick stands beside him and takes his hand, helping to hoist him up until his foot finds purchase on a makeshift step. Will pulls himself up with all his might, though his upper body strength is lacking considerably, and once he is halfway up the rocks, he nearly slips, tiny stones crumbling beneath his shoes and falling away. His palms grow sweaty with nerves, and he knows he is about to fall, and then a large, weathered hand clasps around his wrist and yanks, and Hannibal is lifting Will up and over the rest of the way up the rocks. He pulls him to his feet, steadying his shoulders pragmatically before releasing him and continuing. Will stares after him, waiting for Frederick to finish his climb, and then they continue, both too exhausted to converse. 

At last, they pass the rocky terrain and, when Hannibal brushes aside a heavily foiled tree branch, a wooden fence is revealed. Will smells the smoke before he sees it, and he senses the tension radiating from Hannibal before he looks at him and sees it, the way the man holds his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the narrowing of his eyes. 

Something is wrong. 

Hannibal jumps the fence, Frederick and Will following close behind, and when Will places first steps on the open field and sees the sooty black cabin, he knows. 

The three men walk forward slowly, the bodies presenting themselves one at a time as they draw closer. Hannibal kneels in the grass beside the body of a woman and places a hand on her back. Will stops close behind and watches. She has thick hair of spiraling curls and a hacking wound slashed down her spine, black with dried blood. Her eyes are open, and Hannibal fans his hand over her face, closing her lids. A few feet ahead of her is a man’s body, scalped and emptied by a slit throat. The grass around his head is stained crimson. 

Frederick moves at the entrance of the cabin, a handkerchief held to his nose. He turns around with watery eyes, from the lingering smoke or tears, Will is unsure, but he thinks it is probably both, because then Frederick says, “There are children in here.”

Will doesn’t need to ask in what state the children are in; it is abundantly clear that everyone in and around this cabin has been slaughtered. His eyes flutter and close, and he breathes deeply as a pendulum swings in his mind. Will sees the scene play out behind his eyes. The woman running, screaming, trying to flee, and the axe falling, cracking her back and embedding into the soft flesh of her skin. She goes down. The man ahead of her, her husband, is gushing blood. He tries to reach a hand out to her, but the Huron straddles his back, lifts his head and scalps him. They both die to the sounds of screams from the others, trapped inside the burning cabin. A baby’s cry rings out until it stops. 

A hand on Will’s shoulder makes him open his eyes, and Hannibal is standing in front of him with an odd look on his face. Will wants to shrug out from beneath his hand, but something keeps him still, held beneath the warmth of the stranger. 

He really is handsome, Will thinks, with his unusual, sharp features, the tan skin and dark maroon eyes beneath a pale, heavy brow. Will’s eyes dart away from Hannibal’s and fall on his lips instead, which are full and bowed and look soft. He watches as the man’s tongue wets them quickly. The tension in him is palpable. 

Will is sweating from his vision, as well as from the sweltering heat of the day, and he hopes his shaking is not too visible beneath Hannibal’s touch. 

“I have seen the face of war, but never upon the lives of women and children,” Frederick sighs in disgust, breaking the hypnotic silence. Hannibal lets his hand drop away from Will’s shoulder and turns away.

“This is the act of a Huron war party,” he states, gesturing to the untouched corn crop behind the cabin. “They’ve torn through here, only stopping long enough to destroy everyone in their path. If this was a commonplace group of miscreants, they would have taken the food and the valuables.”

“Nothing is missing from inside,” Frederick verifies, stunned, and Hannibal nods. 

“We cannot linger here. Come,” he says and begins walking from the cabin.

Will stands helplessly in the field over the woman’s dead body. “But, wait,” he says, his feet shuffling nervously. “We must give these poor people a proper Christian burial.”

Hannibal looks at him over his shoulder. “We will do no such thing.”

“We cannot leave them here like this!” Will shouts, tears burning in his eyes. Frederick puts a hand on his back, but Will pushes him off. When Hannibal does not turn around again, or stop, Will’s anger bubbles over and he screams at the back of the retreating man. “There are women and children here! Even if they are strangers, your indifference to them is nearly as cruel as the act of their slaughter!”  
It is then that Hannibal stops in his tracks. He turns to Will and approaches on quick feet, his eyes glowing with anger, and Will stumbles back a few steps as Hannibal comes to stand directly in front of him, so close he can feel the man’s breath on his face. 

“They are not strangers,” he says softly. “And they stay where they lay.” 

Will trembles beneath Hannibal’s glare, but holds his ground, as meager as it is. Their eyes are trained together, and Will wonders if the moment will ever end, and then Hannibal is turning away once more and resuming his trek from the field. Will takes the arm Frederick holds out for him, and they hurry behind their scout, Will still shaking slightly from the memory of Hannibal’s eyes on his. 

 

They walk until the light begins to wane, and Hannibal bids them stop within a grove of spindly trees. Will glances upward at the chimes of bone than hang from the high branches. He senses death in this place, but does not fear it. Just as he does not fear that Hannibal will lead them anywhere unsafe. As soon as he is able, he collapses onto the soft grass and leans his back against the trunk of a tree. Frederick sits beside him, but Will pays him little mind, not meeting his eyes when he so plainly seeks them, keeping his head cast down. He has flecks of blood on his hands, he notices vaguely. 

The air cools as the sky darkens, and soon it is night, with only the soft light of the moon forcing its way in beams through the tree canopy and across the forest floor. Will follows the yellow light of a firefly as it flies past Hannibal’s head. The man is across the camp from Will and Frederick, to his back is a moss covered log. Will hesitates for the span of a breath before shifting from his place beside the Major and standing. He can feel Frederick’s eyes on him as he crosses to Hannibal and takes a seat beside him. 

Hannibal does not look at him, his attention focused on thoughts unseen, even to Will, who is so skilled at seeing that which remains hidden. What he does see is something he missed before, and when he speaks, it is in a hushed tone of guilt.

“Why didn’t you bury those people?” he asks even though the answer is plain to him. He wants to hear Hannibal say it, wants to hear the words curving with a sweet accent on his tongue.

“If there are war parties roaming up and down the frontier, it would be a sure sign that we had passed through,” Hannibal says, still not looking at Will.

“You were acting for our benefit, and I apologize,” Will says softly. “You knew them well.” It is not a question, and Hannibal finally turns his head to look at him. 

“Do not trouble yourself over it,” he says. “My father warned me about people like you.”

“People like me?” Will asks in disbelief, and he is opening his mouth to argue when Hannibal clamps his hand over it and rolls on top of him.

Will lifts his hands to slap at him, but pauses when he sees the warning in Hannibal’s eyes. He can see Frederick in his peripheral, lying flat on his stomach with his rifle pointed ahead, and that’s when Will finally hears it, twigs snapping nearby and the unmistakable murmuring of humans. 

His heart clenches in his chest with fear and he tries to keep his breathing steady. Hannibal’s hand remains firm against his lips, and with his other hand he keeps him pinned beneath his hips. It is a position of dominance and protection both, and Will’s breath begins to hitch for a reason entirely beyond fear. Hannibal’s body is flush against his own and hot. He is keenly aware of every tight muscle pressed against him. Hannibal’s eyes leave his face as he peeks over the log, and the movement makes his lower body push against Will’s with increased pressure. To Will’s horror, he feels his cock twitch against Hannibal’s thigh, an unmistakable response to his proximity. He is thankful for the cloak of night that masks his blush, if not his swelling erection.

Tense minutes pass and Will wonders if the night will end in more bloodshed, probably his own, but after a time, after Will has grown fully aroused against Hannibal’s pressing body, the weight leaves him and Hannibal removes his hand. Will hears Frederick cursing softly and lifts up on his elbows. He turns bright eyes to Hannibal, who is still peering out over the edge of the log. 

“Who was it?”

“French scouts with a Huron guide,” Hannibal answers. 

“Why did they turn back?”

Hannibal motions to the bone chimes hanging from the branches above them. “Sacred burial ground,” he says, and a small grin spreads his lips. His eyes do not fall to the bulge in Will’s trousers, but Will knows he is aware of it. He also knows Frederick is watching him, trying to summon him back to his side with the power of his mind alone, but Will does not want to leave Hannibal. 

Will rolls to his side to face him, and folds his hands like a pillow beneath his head. To his reserved delight, Hannibal lies on his back next to him. The pair is quiet for a time, as both their heartbeats steady back to normal.

“Crawford,” Hannibal says after a long time, and Will shuts his eyes to the subtle power in his voice. “Jack Crawford and his wife, Bella, and many more they were harboring.”

“The people at the cabin,” Will surmises. “They were your friends.” He opens his eyes. Hannibal has turned to his side, as well, and is facing him fully. 

“As good of friends as I have known,” Hannibal says solemnly. 

“What were they doing in this defenseless place?” Will asks. 

“Frontier life is the only option available here for poor people,” Hannibal says. “After seven years of service, they moved out here to build a life for themselves and their families, not to be ruled by another man’s leave.”

Will cannot stop staring at the man beside him in the grass. His skin is as silver as his hair in the streaming moon beams, and his eyes are impossibly dark as they return his gaze with endless night. He is timidly aware of Hannibal’s hand resting near his own, and a piece of him, a quiet, hampered down piece, wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him. 

“I imagine it is different out here than what you had in mind,” Hannibal says after several harried heartbeats. 

“On the contrary, this place moves me. Nothing I’ve experienced has ever been so stirring to my blood,” Will answers, embarrassed by his words but forcing them out anyway, his eyes breaking apart from Hannibal’s at the very last, when he turns around and faces away from him, curling his body up as though he would go to sleep right then. 

Hannibal watches him, sees his chest rising and falling rapidly, and feels the phantom hardness of his body still pressing against his own. This strange, beautiful stranger had been wanting and panting beneath his touch, and Hannibal can scarcely believe it. The dark head is faced away from him, but he can see the outline of parted lips and furrowed brow over the satin lined shoulders. Will Graham, Hannibal realizes, is an enigma, and when he curls in to rest at Will’s back, he cautions Frederick a glance, who is sparking venom as he watches. Hannibal offers him a slight smile before shutting his eyes. 

During the night, Hannibal’s hand ventures forward, inch by tentative inch, until the tips of his fingers brush the back of Will’s coat. It is all he desires, this small touch, but at its slight pressure, Will pushes against the fingers insistently. Hannibal startles, because he had thought Will to be sleeping, but when the boy scoots against the ground, his back pressing, pressing against Hannibal’s hand, he knows he has misjudged many things. Hannibal closes the distance between them, moving forward until Will’s back is curved against his chest, and their heat is flush and shared. He listens to the sound of Will breathing, rapid and shallow, and Hannibal smoothes his hand over his back in slow circles until it slows and steadies. 

Eventually, Will falls back to sleep. Hannibal never does, watching the boy curled up against him with rapt attention, not wanting to miss the way he looks when the sun begins to rise and the early sunlight hits his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexy times ahead.

It is at the end of the second day that they spot Fort William Henry in the distance, from their vantage point atop the hillside, masked behind trees. It is nighttime, but Will can see the Fort with ease, because it is surrounded by siege, and cannon blasts and torchlight abounds. 

Hannibal arches a brow at Frederick, who looks on the scene, aghast. 

“We had no word that the Fort was under attack,” he says. 

“Word or not, the French have laid siege against your Colonel,” Hannibal says.

Will observes the tiny figures shuffling in the tunnels before the Fort, digging. He sees the bodies being thrown up and apart by the landing cannons. Thunderous booms fill the air, and he can feel the ground vibrating beneath his feet, even at this faraway distance. 

“How do we get inside?” Will asks, and he does not turn to Frederick for answers, but Hannibal.

Hannibal gestures to the bottom of the hill, where the river runs through to the back edge of the Fort. 

“Very carefully,” he answers, and begins his way down the steep hill, unconsciously extending his arm for Will to grasp before he can stumble. 

At the bottom of the hill, tucked between two mulberry bushes, is a canoe, hidden there by French scouts if Hannibal’s eye is anything to depend on. After a short appraisal for holes, he pronounces it suitable and bids Will to enter. 

“You will stay in the boat with your head ducked low,” Hannibal tells him as Will sits. He settles his hand to Will’s back and leads him down, so low he is bent over, chest pushed to his knees. “Stay down and stay quiet.” He turns to Frederick next. “You and I will swim beside the boat and lead it to the opposite shore. Oars will be too loud. Sneaking past the eyes of the Huron scouts will be the only chance we have to get through. Pray to your god that we are undetected.”

Will feels as though his heart is in his throat as the men push the boat out into the black water. The air smells of smoke and violence, and Will dares not shut his eyes, because behind his lids is the promise of blood and death. He can sense it all around him; so many dead, so many dying. The pendulum swings and he can see their bayoneted stomachs, flesh too soft to help the spears from sinking deep. 

Hannibal leads the boat to Will’s right, and he tries to stay focused on him instead of the nauseated feeling in his gut. Will sets his hand beside Hannibal’s on the rim of the canoe and is lit with firing nerves when Hannibal moves his hand to lay over his own. 

Shadowy figures move on the opposite bank, but they remain unseen, a ghost canoe slipping over the water, unnoticed in the surrounding battle. 

Soon they are pulling up to the opposite shore. Frederick and Hannibal are both exhausted from the effort of leading the boat through the water, but it’s as if they are in competition to see who can hide their fatigue the best. Hannibal wins when he wastes no time after his feet hit the earth, and he pulls Will up by the waist to begin walking them up the hill round the back of the Fort. There are already officers there, having spied them upon their breach of the water. They approach them with torches and raised weapons until they recognize both Frederick’s uniform and the face of the Colonel’s son. 

They are ushered up a steep, winding path to the back entrance of the Fort, and Hannibal is regarded warily at the threshold before he receives a head nod of approval and is allowed within. A man awaits them with a dark, concernedly pinched brow and bright blue eyes, and Hannibal cannot mistake him for anyone but Will’s father. The hug he extends to his son is Hannibal’s instant confirmation. 

Will is squeezed by his father, the Colonel, with muscular arms and a heavy sigh at his ear. “My boy, my boy, are you alright?” he asks, and then he pulls away to look his son in the eyes. “What are you doing here? Why’d you ignore my letter?”

“Letter? There was no letter,” Will protests, and Frederick is standing beside him, shaking his head. 

The Colonel frowns and sets his arm around Will. “Come with me, all of you, where we can speak undisturbed.”

Frederick follows immediately behind Colonel Graham and his son, but Hannibal waits a moment before heading after them. 

Once the door shuts behind them in the Colonel’s office, he rounds on his son. “Why’d you disobey me, boy? What’s happened?”

Frederick steps up to speak then. “Sir, we were attacked on the King’s road. General Bloom’s guide, Hobbs, betrayed us to a party of Huron and most of the sixtieth regiment joining us was killed. This man helped us and guided us the rest of the way to the Fort.”

The Colonel looks at Hannibal with surprise that melts quickly into gratitude. “Aye? Then I am in your debt. What can I do for you?”

Hannibal shrugs his shoulders. “If I could help myself to a few gunpowder horns. And food,” he says.

Colonel Graham nods his head. “Of course. Anything you need. I am indebted to you.”

Frederick speaks again. “How is the situation here, Colonel?”

“It looks bleak at the moment, but as soon as General Bloom arrives, I imagine the tide will turn considerably.”

“General Bloom knows nothing of the siege, Colonel,” Frederick tells him, a creeping of horror finding its way into his voice.

“Nonsense. I sent three runners to him days ago,” Colonel Graham argues. 

“Only one arrived in Albany, sir. Hobbs. And he sent no such message.”

“Then Bloom is not coming,” the Colonel says slowly. 

Hannibal speaks up. “We could send out a runner with a new message,” he says, but the Colonel writes off the suggestion with a shake of his wigged head. 

“It would take three days for Bloom to march his regiment here to aid us. The rate the French are tunneling, they’ll be upon us well before then.”

“But Bloom is not in Albany, sir,” says Frederick, with a new flurry of hope in his words. “He marched to Fort Edward a few days ago.”

Colonel Graham’s eyes light up. “Fort Edward? That’s only twelve miles way. They could be here in a day.” He turns to the officer waiting by the door. “Send word and prepare our best runner,” he orders, and then he turns to his son and places a gentle hand to cup his cheek. “Why don’t you go get some rest and change into some clean clothes, my boy? I’ll speak with you soon.”

Will nods and heads for the door, head down as the officer opens it for him, and then he is standing in the heart of the fort. And Hannibal is standing right behind him. He can feel him there, watching, and so he turns around to face him. 

“You are pale,” Hannibal says. “You should do as your father says and get some rest.”

“I won’t be able to sleep in this place,” Will says with a forced sigh. “There’s too much…” He catches himself and lets his words taper off before he can say what he had meant to say, that there is too much death and he can feel it all. But Hannibal doesn’t need to hear that from him. Hannibal doesn’t need to think Will is a lunatic, not when everyone else already does. 

Hannibal takes a step forward. “You feel it,” he says, a statement, and Will repays him with widened, watering eyes. 

“Yes,” he whispers, and Hannibal’s hand reaches, and he brushes his rough fingers against the soft flesh of Will’s wrist. 

“What does it feel like?” Hannibal asks him, and his fingers close around a delicate hand, the pad of his thumb smoothing over narrow bones. 

Will licks his lips and stares helplessly at the man holding him so tightly in his gaze, even though his touch is light against his skin. “It feels like I’m crazy,” he says, and his words are so low they are almost drowned out by the deafening rumble of cannon fire. 

“HANNIBAL!” comes a shout from above, and he and Will both crane their necks upward to find the source. 

A tall, handsome, dark-haired fellow is leaning over the battlements, waving his hand to catch Hannibal’s attention. 

“Anthony Dimmond!” Hannibal calls up to his friend. “I need to speak to you!” He turns back to Will, pushing the hair from his eyes and grinning. “If you won’t be resting, where will you be?”

“Wherever I can be of use,” Will tells him, wondering himself where he could possibly be useful. “Go and speak with your friend.”

Hannibal inclines his head to Will and gives his hand a light squeeze before letting go and walking off through the throng of people streaming around them in the belly of the Fort. Will flexes his hand and holds it against his chest. His skin feels like it’s on fire. He watches Hannibal until his tall figure disappears from his line of sight. 

 

In his borrowed quarters, he changes into the fresh, clean clothes laid out for him. Blessedly simple attire: a blue shirt and white trousers. There is a velvet brown overcoat, as well, but Will ignores it. It is too hot, and he likes the light feeling of less layers. He is pulling on his second boot when Frederick enters, shutting the door closed in his wake. 

“Frederick,” Will says by way of greeting, and the Major bows to him before making his way forward. To Will’s surprise, he bends to one knee and takes Will’s hand between his own. 

“William,” he says, eyes swimming with adoration. “Are you well? I know the past few days have been tiring for you, but please take comfort that soon this will all be over. When we are back in London and properly joined, this will all seem like a distant dream.”

Will slowly withdraws his hand from Frederick’s, smiling kindly. “Frederick, I have thought on your offer to me,” he begins, and Frederick looks at him with a hopefulness that nearly breaks Will’s heart, “and I have decided that I would rather make the gravest of mistakes than sacrifice my own judgment. I cannot be with you. I’m sorry.”

Slowly, Frederick rises from his knee until he is standing over Will. “Is this about Hannibal?” he asks, and Will balks. 

“No, of course not. I do care for you, Frederick. But I do not love you in that way. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Frederick says as he backs slowly away. “I understand perfectly.” 

 

Hannibal pats his friend heartily on the back as he is welcomed into the circle of frontier militiamen standing guard atop the battlements. 

“Did you change your mind and decide to join the fight?” Dimmond asks him, and Hannibal snorts. 

“Hardly,” he admits. “I’m here under entirely different circumstances. But I am surprised to see you still here.”

Dimmond frowns at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I passed the Crawford’s cabin on my way through, and it had been hit by a Huron war party,” Hannibal says, watching the horror unfold slowly on all of their faces. “My guess is they’re hitting up and down the frontier, taking no prisoners.”

Dimmond pays a glance around him at his militia and squares his shoulders. “I need to have a word with Colonel Graham,” he says. 

“I will join you,” Hannibal says, and they make their way together to the Colonel’s office. 

 

When they arrive, Frederick and Colonel Graham are speaking in low tones over a map, and both their powder wigged heads look up as the two men enter through the door. 

“Colonel,” Dimmond says, wasting no time before stepping up to him and falling to attention. “Permission to leave the Fort and return to our homes.”

The Colonel huffs in disbelief. “That’s impossible,” he says. 

“Hannibal tells me there is a Huron war party attacking homes along the frontier. It was a condition of our involvement that we be given leave to protect our families if such a situation was to arise.”

“You have proof of this war party?” the Colonel asks. He is looking at Hannibal warily. 

“It was a war party, no mistaking it,” Hannibal says. “They killed women and children and took no valuables with them. Frederick saw. He can tell you.”

The Colonel looks at Frederick and there is a heavy hesitation in the room before Frederick shakes his head curtly and says, “I saw no such proof.”

It is all the denial the Colonel requires, and he shrugs his shoulders at Dimmond, fanning his hands at his sides helplessly. “There you have it. You will stay here. Any found leaving the Fort without permission will be shot on sight.”

Dimmond’s eyes are wild with anger, but he takes a deep breath and leaves the room without a second glance. Hannibal glares at Frederick until the man takes a step backward, and then he follows swiftly behind his friend. 

Outside, Hannibal takes Dimmond’s elbow and draws him close, leaning to whisper at his ear. “Meet me on the battlements.” Dimmond nods and heads off, but Hannibal does not follow directly. Instead, he careens to the right, heading for the surgery tent.

 

Will is wrapping a soldier’s wound, a gash around his bare midriff. The cringing man sits on top of the wood table while Will circles the gauze around his waist. He doesn’t notice Hannibal until he is nearly upon him. 

Of course, Will feels him before he sees him, and he tries to hide the ghost of a smile before lifting his head.

“Please do not mind me,” Hannibal tells him, and he bends down on one knee, a striking similarity to Frederick’s movements before. Only now Hannibal is before him, his hand roaming though a few med packs on the ground at Will’s feet. “I am merely helping myself to a few supplies, since your father was kind enough to offer them to me.” 

Will nods and resumes his work on the wounded man, trying not to fall too distracted by the heat of Hannibal’s body, so close. From the corner of his eye, he sees Hannibal stand and tuck a few rolls of gauze into one of the slouchy leather pouches around his waist. But he does not turn and leave as Will expects him to. Instead, he lingers, for so long Will can no longer ignore it. He glances up. Hannibal is standing there, by the doorway, just watching him. Will watches him back for a few moments, and then huffs, almost a laugh, almost an irritated sigh. 

“What are you looking at, sir?” Will asks finally, when he can stand it no longer.

Hannibal smiles at him, revealing a flash of teeth. “Why, I’m looking at you, Will.”

Immediately, Will lowers his eyes, pretending not to fumble with the gauze in his hands, though his fingers are shaking. And still, Hannibal remains. Only when Will looks up at him a second time and holds his stare, eyes wide with surprise, does Hannibal bow slightly and, with his own eyes narrowing in pleasure, leave the room.

 

Hannibal leaves the surgery, reluctant to pry Will from his sight, but he still has business to attend to before the night is through, and he finds Dimmond waiting for him on top of the battlements.

They converse quickly and quietly, Hannibal showing Dimmond on his map exactly where the guard is lacking around the back of the Fort. 

“You’re not coming with us?” Dimmond asks him.

Hannibal shakes his head. “I have a reason to stay. And no offense, Anthony Dimmond, but it’s a lot better looking a reason than any of you.”

Dimmond winks. “Does this reason happen to wear a blue shirt and work in the surgery?”

“It does,” Hannibal admits, and Dimmond slaps him fondly on the back. 

“Then it is here I’ll be saying goodbye to you, my friend,” he says. He leans his head in close. “Good luck to you, Hannibal Lecter.”

“Save that luck for yourself, Dimmond,” Hannibal says with a soft smile. 

He stays on top of the battlements until he can see Dimmond and his militiamen reach the other side of the riverbank, free from the Fort. Then he heads for the stairs. 

 

The only light in the surgery is the single tapering candle illuminating the soldier’s face as his eyes stare blankly into a beyond Will can neither fathom nor follow. The hand he grips loosens, and he brings it to rest over the dead man’s chest. It is the fourth man to die in Will’s arms this night, and he hangs his head heavily, his sable curls falling over his damp brow. A faint trickle of sound twists through the open window, and Will lifts his eyes to search its maker. It is a fiddle, and it is picking up a favored tune. Will lifts up from his watchful perch beside the deceased soldier and makes his way to lean against the window. Strange that in the middle of battle, in the middle of a Fort, in the middle of a siege, there is still music, and there are still people with enough cheer in their hearts to dance to it. Most bodies filling the heart of the Fort are wounded, laid out because they can no longer fit in the surgeries, but those who are able are standing and grabbing someone nearby and capturing each other in frivolous swirling and linked elbows and heads bent back with laughter. 

Will envies them their closeness, their freeness of spirit, and as the fiddler’s tune picks up, the dancers keep in dutiful step, clumsy perhaps in their tiredness, but enthused. Even the cannons, which have proven constant since Will’s arrival, seem to stop, and Will questions whether or not the French have ceased fire in order to dance to the music as well. For it is beautiful, Will admits, and he welcomes every note that reaches his ears, floating toward him on the night breeze, a counterpoint to the sweltering assault of death assailing his every other sense. 

He looks behind him, surveying the hot little room he has sequestered himself into, and the music begins to pull him forward, until he is outside of the surgery and in the open air. An officer’s laugh rings in his ears and a single drum begins to keep the beat, a young man sitting beside the fiddler and grinning as he bangs his palm against the stretched leather. Will is looking all around, scanning every face, and it is not until he sees it that he realizes he has been looking for it. A silver head, bobbing tall as a svelte body moves gracefully down the battlement stairs. 

From across the Fort, their eyes meet, and, as if his feet no longer belong to himself, as if they belong to Hannibal instead, Will begins to make his way through the crowd of revelers. Hannibal walks forward as well, never taking his eyes off of Will’s, and all too soon they are standing a pace away from one another and Will no longer knows what to do. 

But he does not need to know, because Hannibal does, and he takes Will’s hand in his and turns. Will ducks his head shyly and allows himself to be led, past the fiddler and drummer, past the swirling dancers, past an officer closing his eyes for the last time, until they are climbing a second set of stairs, and Hannibal is placing them behind the stockroom. 

The night air feels cooler up here somehow, with Hannibal standing so close and holding his hand, his skin hot as fire against Will’s. The river shines bright with moonlight. 

Still the fiddle plays, drowning out the sounds of anguish from Will’s tortured mind, and it urges him closer to the solid body before him. Hannibal’s hand slips from Will’s to slide languidly up his arms, his touch light and careful, as though Will is something easily broken, and maybe he is, Will thinks. And in the same instant, he thinks, quite possibly, that if he is to be broken, he wants to be broken by this man. So when Hannibal’s hands grip his shoulders, Will softens beneath his touch and leans his body forward so they are standing chest to chest, hip to hip, and he tilts his head back in acquiescence, parting his lips and closing his eyes. 

Hannibal stares, stock-still for an instant, enraptured by the wanton creature in his arms. Will’s lips are red and full and open to him, and his long black lashes rest gracefully against milky white cheeks, their fluttering the only betrayal of his nerves. And Hannibal savors this moment of anticipation, this bittersweet relief in his chest that the soul he has felt for so strongly has felt the same, at least in this moment, and this moment is all that matters. He glides a wide palm up Will’s neck and holds him gently by the nape, and then he bends his head and presses his lips softly against Will’s. 

Will makes a sound beneath the touch and brings his arms up to wrap around Hannibal’s neck and pull him in closer, encouraging the kiss to deepen. The fervent pressing of lips makes Will’s breath hitch, and he breaks away from the kiss to meet Hannibal’s eyes. He is lost in him completely, and when Hannibal moves him, lifting him slightly from the ground and pushing him back against the logs of the wall, he cannot stifle the groan that slips free. Hannibal growls, a deep thrumming in his chest, and he pins Will against the wall, ravaging him with his mouth until they are both breathless from it. 

Will feels Hannibal’s tongue lick against his lower lip and he obliges him, opening his lips and reveling in the hot tongue that slides over his teeth and smoothes against his own. The kiss is wet and messy and Will’s palms are sweating as they grip at Hannibal’s back. He digs his nails in and scrapes a long line over the worn buckskin shirt until he reaches its hem, and without thinking, for thought has fled him entirely, Will moves his hands beneath the material and lays his hands on Hannibal’s bare skin. 

To his delight, Hannibal shivers beneath his touch and his hips jut forward, and Will feels the hardness that rubs delicious friction against his thigh. Will moves his hands further up the planes of Hannibal’s back, forcing up the shirt until they are forced to break their mouths apart, but only for as long as it takes for Will to lift the burdensome garment up and over Hannibal’s head, and then he is fisting silver strands between his fingers and fitting Hannibal against him. Hannibal takes his mouth once more, open and furious, and the length he presents against Will’s own groin is thick and heavy and burning hot beneath his thin leggings. 

Will releases one hand from Hannibal’s hair to venture with an exploratory palm, and he skims it down Hannibal’s taut stomach until he feels the significant ridge of his cock. He works his hand beneath the waistband and folds his long, elegant fingers over Hannibal’s erection, making them both gasp. 

It feels different, touching this place on another, and he is overtly aware of how large Hannibal is, how much bigger he is than Will, and the realization makes him shiver. Hannibal brings his hand down and cups it over Will’s, tightening the grip on his shaft, and they both moan in tandem as Will squeezes and tugs. Will has never thought of touching another man the way he touches himself, nor has he ever sanctioned much thought to someone touching him in a similar way, but when Hannibal reaches around with both hands to grasp Will’s backside, a sense of rightness fills his core, and he bucks his hips forward, making his own hardness writhe against Hannibal’s. 

Hannibal’s fingers dig into the supple flesh of Will’s ass, kneading the cheeks through the too-thick fabric of his trousers. “I want to feel you,” he whispers roughly at Will’s ear before biting at the lobe. 

Will melts in his arms and nods his head, his own voice faint with need when he answers, “Yes,” and Hannibal coaxes his fingers past the hindrance of Will’s trousers and groans at the sensation of soft, warm skin under his hands. He is aware, vaguely, that the music is still playing in the Fort below, and when Will begins to rut against him, unconscious of the way his hips move in sweet rhythm to the banging drum, his lips split into a grin across his face, and he buries it against Will’s neck, wanting him to feel his smile, and the sharpness of teeth beneath it. 

Hannibal’s teeth scraping against his skin only increases Will’s maddening need for more, and he lifts a leg, his thigh spreading around Hannibal’s waist until the man’s hands on his ass move and accommodate, gripping the back of his knee, searching his other hand over Will’s second leg, and lifting him up to fully wrap around him. Will is fastened against Hannibal now, his sensitive body gloriously crushed between the wall and Hannibal as their mouths join, their lips slipping together roughly, as well as their hips, Hannibal grinding insistent circles against Will’s groin, both twitching from the union of erections, hidden as they still are, behind the unrelenting fabrics of their pants. But this feels good, Hannibal thinks, and he is content to hump drily against the beautiful nymph in his arms for as long as he is allowed. 

It is Will who aches for more, more, and he clasps his hands around Hannibal’s face and jerks his head away to see him properly. They are both panting, desperate things, with parted, spit-slick lips and bottomless eyes, pupils blown huge with desire. Hannibal thumbs Will’s mouth, swollen and bruised from kissing, and Will bears his teeth down light against the digit before sucking it into his mouth. 

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal whispers, his accent curling brilliantly, adoringly around the name, and Will hollows his cheeks and begins to suck with an earnestness that nearly brings Hannibal to his knees. 

Will has no idea, really, what he is doing, what he should be doing, or why he does it, he only knows that it feels good and right, and that to have Hannibal in his mouth is a keenest pleasure, one Will has never known, and not one he thinks he will ever give up. His tongue licks velvet heat over salty skin, and he only relents when Hannibal holds his jaw and extricates his thumb, his eyes softening sweetly at the boy holding him so enthralled. 

The loss of tasting Hannibal makes Will huff adorably, and Hannibal seeks to soothe him, cupping his scruffy cheek in the palm of his hand. Will leans into the touch, nuzzling into it, and when he looks at Hannibal through his lashes, the older man kisses him again, only this time he is slow and tantalizingly tender, and it makes every hair on the back of Will’s neck stand straight, and he shudders beneath the delicate pressing of lips. 

Hannibal’s hand leaves Will’s face and careful fingertips tickle phantom caresses over his neck until his large palm flattens over the hollow of Will’s throat and his fingers spread, tucking beneath the loose collar of his shirt. Will is glad he is not wearing the cravat, glad that Hannibal has such easy access to his bare skin, and he relishes shamelessly in the possessive touch, sighing when Hannibal tucks his head down to press open mouthed kisses against his exposed neck. 

When he licks over Will’s pulse and bites against the skin, Will breathes deep and clutches Hannibal greedily, running his nails sharply over Hannibal’s shoulders, begging wordlessly for the furthering of contact. 

A rush of wind blows cool against Will’s heated skin, and he closes his eyes. He is intoxicated, lustful, and he wants Hannibal, needs him. He whispers so in the man’s ear, and Hannibal meets his gaze with heavy lids. 

“Hannibal,” he sighs, and in that name he places all of his heart and hopes that it is heard. Will knows he doesn’t need to, but he asks anyway, because he wants Hannibal to feel the need in his voice. “I want you.” He tightens his legs around Hannibal’s waist and dips his hips forward. A lock of silken hair falls over Hannibal’s eyes, and Will brushes it away before fixing a kiss to his brow. 

“What do you want, Will?” Hannibal inquires as his hands find their way back to Will’s ass, gripping there longingly. 

Will struggles against the rush of embarrassment, but swallows it down, because it doesn’t matter, not here with Hannibal, and he answers, voice adamantly clear, “I want to feel you inside me.”

Maybe because he wants to prolong the moment, or maybe because he wants to be absolutely certain before acting, Hannibal tilts his head questioningly to the side. “And what do you want inside you?” he asks, and the blush that spreads across Will’s cheeks is the loveliest sight he has ever seen. 

Will bites his lip and ducks his head, and Hannibal wonders if he has pushed too far, if the boy in his arms is too shy or too naïve to know what he wants, but then Will is looking back up between his cascade of dark curls, and saying, “You, Hannibal,” with a shuddering sigh that speeds Hannibal’s heart. “Your cock.”

Hannibal exhales harshly, and his words rasp in his throat, thick with arousal, like the air around their grinding bodies. “You want me to fuck you, my love?” he asks, the brutal bucking forward of his hips the punctuation to his question. 

The dirty word on Hannibal’s lips mixed with the sweetness of the endearment makes Will’s head swim with delirium, and he cannot speak, so he nods instead, and Hannibal sweeps him gently from against the wall, and brings them both to resting against the cool planks of the battlement floor. 

It is risky, they both know, to make love here, scantily obscured behind the stockroom walls, high above the bustle of the Fort, but as they move their bodies together, neither take heed of the caution in the backs of their minds. It is a worthwhile risk, being together in this way, and Will thinks, wildly, that were they laid out on his father’s desk he still would not be tempted to stop Hannibal from slipping him free of his trousers, or prying his shirt from his chest. Nor would he still his own fingers from deftly untying the laces of Hannibal’s breeches and yanking them down until they fell over his ankles.

Both are bared fully now, and retreat is undesired and impossible. The fear of the unknown Will feels coursing through him is incomparable to the desire boiling his blood, and he lies back in sweet submission as Hannibal kneels above him and slowly runs his eyes up the length of Will’s body. Exposed this way, he is an ivory dream, moon-bright and luminous, and Hannibal has to close his eyes momentarily to gather himself. So beautiful is Will that the sight of him makes Hannibal ache, and the only cure is to look at him again and lower himself close. 

Hannibal’s chest hair is coarse and lush against Will’s smooth skin, and he pants when the older man sets both elbows to either side of Will’s head, trapping him beneath his strong body. 

“Have you ever been with anyone?” Hannibal asks, his lips smearing hot kisses over Will’s jawline. 

“No one,” Will whispers, his voice raw and eager, and he runs his hands up and down Hannibal’s muscular chest, luxuriating in the bristle of hair and the hardness that is pure strength and grace. 

“And you are sure that you want me?” Hannibal asks, a tangled murmur against the curls at Will’s neck. 

Will lifts his head to reach a kiss to Hannibal’s mouth. It lands on the corner of his perfectly shaped lips, and they share an easy smile between them before Will answers. “I am sure I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life,” he says, and Hannibal buries himself in the nook of Will’s shoulders, sucking roughly against the thin flesh, bruising it beneath his teeth. “Take me,” Will urges. “Make my body yours. My heart already is.”

Hannibal moans against him and raises a hand to trace along Will’s lips, nudging slightly until they open for him. Will suckles at the breaching fingers, slicking them with spit, and when Hannibal is satisfied, he slips them free and roams them down Will’s body to rub between his thighs. With his knees, Hannibal opens the gap between Will’s legs, allowing himself more room to navigate his fingers along the tender line of flesh down Will’s ass. He quickly finds the tight ring of muscle and circles it with the wet pad of his finger. 

Will’s heart races at the forbidden touch, and he bites hard on his knuckles to keep his voice from revealing them to the entire regiment, not to mention the French. He has never been touched there, in that intimate place, not even with his own fingers, and the building pressure around his hole feels so wonderfully illicit that he presses down against Hannibal’s hand, begging for more, always more. 

When the first tip of the first finger sinks inside, Will can no more stop himself from crying out as he can stop the flow of blood through his veins, and Hannibal has to clamp his other hand over Will’s gasping mouth to contain the sound. 

“Do you like that?” Hannibal asks, and Will hums his approval, unable to speak with Hannibal’s hand still held tightly over his mouth. Hannibal pushes his finger further inside, slowly, until he is knuckle deep, and Will breaks into a sweat, and his eyes flutter outside of his control. The finger curls and uncurls, and then Hannibal pulls it slowly out, almost all the way, before pushing back in, harder this time. He fucks him this way, slowly, with a single finger, until Will is shaking in his arms, and then Hannibal adds a second finger. 

The stretch is strange, but Will glories in it and, before long, he is pushing back against Hannibal’s fingers, and his hands grip Hannibal’s arms, and he mews desperately behind the press of the palm against his lips. Hannibal’s fingers fan apart, spreading Will’s hole, the skin around it stretched, pink and tender, and Will tears Hannibal’s hand away from his mouth, and forces his head down so he can kiss him again. 

As their tongues crash together, Will feels Hannibal’s fingers slide free, and when they are replaced by the press of Hannibal’s cockhead against him, he breaks away from the kiss to shut his eyes and swallow against the swelling lump in his throat. His pulse is erratic and his breaths shallow as Hannibal guides the tip of his length past Will’s still-tight ring of muscle. 

“God,” Will whispers, in prayer, in adoration, in worship of the man above him. 

Hannibal’s hair falls forward over his forehead and he nuzzles lovingly against Will’s neck, breathing him in, scenting him, memorizing, and then he sinks himself further. He moves with great care, inching deeper inside with slow, steady thrusts that work Will more and more open. 

When he finally pushes all the way, burying himself to the hilt, Will loses his breath completely and gasps. It is too much, and it is not enough, and Will moves his hand over Hannibal’s ass to pull him even deeper inside. 

Hannibal’s head drops back as he arches, forcing himself to stillness so Will can relax around his intrusion. He stays this way, buried deep as he can manage and unmoving, until Will begins to rock his hips, inviting movement. 

He turns illuminated blue eyes to Hannibal, and bites at his lip with a nod, and that is all the permission Hannibal needs before he begins to pull away, almost completely out, and then he impales Will again, thrusting hard and forcing the air from Will’s lungs once more. The younger man beneath him draws his fingernails so sharply against his skin, Hannibal knows he must be bleeding from it, and the thought only spurs him to more motion. 

Will licks his lips and tightens his hold against Hannibal’s hips as he introduces a steady pace, thrusting into Will so deeply every time that little sounds are knocked helplessly from Will’s chest. He is full, so utterly full that Will can scarcely see, and when Hannibal’s length rubs against the smooth nub inside him, stars shoot out behind his eyes, and Will is blinded with unimaginable pleasure. He throbs with it, delirious, and meets every thrust of Hannibal’s hips with his own, his untouched erection leaking all over Hannibal’s stomach. 

He can feel a tight coiling in his core and knows he will come like this, and he kisses Hannibal. The darting of the other man’s tongue against his own tips him over the edge, and he bursts at the seams, a gush of white striping across his chest. Hannibal moans his name and begins to pound into him relentlessly, his torso sliding sweaty and sticky against Will’s, the milky, thick fluid spreading over Hannibal’s chest. 

Will rides out his orgasm, shaking and breathless, as Hannibal continues to rut against him, and before long, he is spending his own pleasure, and Will can feel it as it ribbons out, deep inside. He continues to work his hips against Hannibal, content to take all he is offered. 

Only when Hannibal begins to grow soft inside Will does he pull himself free, and they both groan their displeasure at the separation. He falls beside Will on his back, and wraps his arms around his boy, securing him snugly to his side, cradling his head against his chest. 

Will kisses the skin he can reach before settling in Hannibal’s arms and closing his eyes. He listens and can no longer hear the hypnotizing melody of the fiddle, only the heavy beating of two hearts, thumping together, in perfect rhythm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the music playing when they're having their special time.   
> Please listen. It's so pretty. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yB6S3c7f8XA


	4. Chapter 4

The French camp is not quiet, but the cannon fire has stopped, on both sides, and the hour is late, so late it is early, and the Marquis stands outside his tent and stares up at the dense blanket of stars. Beside him stands the man Hobbs. 

“What is this overwhelming desire in you to see the death of Colonel Graham?” the head of the French army asks of the Huron scout. 

The mere mention of the Colonel brings an ugly grimace to Hobbs’s face, and he spits out his answer with venom. “When I was younger, I was kidnapped by the English, and made to serve as a dog, a slave. When I finally became free, I returned to my home, and found that my daughter had been taken and sold. And my wife had married another in my absence.”

The Marquis eyes him solemnly. “You hate him.”

“I hate him,” Hobbs agrees. “And when I see him next, I will rip out his beating heart, as he has ripped out mine, and eat it. And the last thing he will see is my face as I vow to erase his seed from this earth forever.”

An uncomfortable moment stretches before the Marquis speaks again. “Tomorrow, I parlay with Colonel Graham, for peace in exchange for his Fort, Hobbs,” he says slowly. “You realize it would not do for me to allow you to take your vengeance against him in so open a manner.”

Hobbs only stares at him, and the Marquis must actively fight to conceal the shiver that erupts over his skin from the blankness in those black eyes. 

“But after the Colonel and his Englishmen have vacated the Fort,” the Marquis continues, a devilish grin appearing on his powder-white face, “whatever fate happens upon them on their road back to Albany is no business of mine.”

 

Hannibal lies on a cot in the dark of a guest room, welcomed to it by Will’s father in a kindly gesture of his thanks. He cannot sleep, because his mind is alight with afterimages of Will spread beneath him in the moonlight. It’s too good a mind-fill to abandon, and so he plays the scene over and over in his head and keeps his hands folded calmly across his chest. 

The pleasant swirling of dark hair and bright eyes are staining his imagination gorgeously until the pitch blackness is ripped away by the swinging open of the cabin door. 

Hannibal squints at the sudden piercing light and barely has time to adjust his eyes before he is manhandled from his cot by three officers and brought before the broad silhouette in the doorway. When the initial shock of being tussled from bed leaves him, Hannibal is able to focus on the man in front of him, the man the officers hold him prisoner in front of in forced supplication. It is Colonel Graham, and the furrow of his brow is formidable. 

“You are under arrest,” he says matter-of-factly, and Hannibal straightens his back from the cower the officers have molded him to.

“On what grounds?” Hannibal asks, and his voice is calm and respectful. This is not something he didn’t expect, despite how much he had wanted to avoid it. 

Behind the Colonel stands Frederick Chilton, his chin lifted in disdain. “Sedition,” he says. “In aiding the militiamen in their escape.”

Hannibal nods, because it is true, and he does not put up a fight. He lets the officers take him by the arms and lead him out of the room. 

 

Will storms into his father’s office, his eyes wild as the curls that spring around his face, ash pale and stricken, as if he has just been slapped across it. 

“Father!” he exclaims upon his entry, and the Colonel looks up from his desk, as does Frederick, who is lurking behind him. “Why have you arrested Hannibal? What has he done other than save my life?”

“He is guilty of sedition, William,” the Colonel says, though his voice is soft when he looks at his son. “He told the militia exactly how to leave the Fort undetected, and for that he must be hanged, as is Colonial law.”

A panic swells in Will’s chest, and he presses on with the urgency of a drowning man. “But you swore to those men they could leave to protect their families, and then forbade it. These men have cut their lives from nothing and now the only thing that stands between their families and a murderous war party is you! If helping those men is sedition, and thinking it right to do so, then I am guilty of sedition, too. You should hang me, as well!”

Frederick surprises both of the Grahams by slamming his hand down on the desk. “Did he send you here to beg for his life?”

Will huffs in disgust. “You know that’s not true, Frederick. You know he wouldn’t do that.”

“The only reason you are defending him, William, is because you have become infatuated with him!”

Silence fills the room, and Will trembles with an intensity of anger he has seldom ever known. When he finally speaks, it is in a voice low and solid that resonates in his entire frame. “Frederick, you are a man of few admirable qualities, but I see now that I was wrong to have ever thought so highly of you.”

“William,” Colonel Graham scolds, and Will recoils instinctually, though his nostrils flare angrily and he does not take his eyes off of Frederick. His father steps toward him and lays a consoling hand on Will’s shoulder. Will can feel the truth in his touch. His father is not a cruel man, he never has been, and he has always wanted what was best for his son, but here they have finally met their moment of crossroads, and Will shrugs his hand away from his father’s touch as the feeling of deaths he’s caused these last few days severely outweighs the feelings of love he holds for his boy. “You know I would never mean to hurt you, lad,” he says quietly. “But I have no choice. The crown dictates, and he is guilty of sedition. There’s no way around it.”

Will nods, and then he turns and walks from the room, slamming the door in his wake. 

He heads straight for the cells in the bowels of the Fort, and struts straight past the guard at the door, who does nothing more than see who Will is before ducking his head and strolling casually out the door of the jail, leaving the Colonel’s son alone with the lone prisoner behind the bars at the farthest reaches of the long, narrow holding room. 

As Will approaches Hannibal’s cell, the cannon fire resumes, held off for so long over the night, and Will realizes the sound is ominously close. The French are dangerously close, substantially closer than they were when they had first arrived. Dust falls from the ceiling as the building shakes, and Will knees at the bars, grasping at them, his hands nearly as cold as the metal to which they cling. 

Hannibal sits opposite him, a serene smile on his face at the sight of his dark-haired vision come to visit, and he leans against the bars, his knuckles brushing Will’s fingers. When he feels how cold they are, Hannibal takes the soft hands in his big ones and holds them against his chest to warm. His eyes burn into Will’s as the younger man’s lip quivers slightly. 

“They’re going to hang you,” he says. He flexes his hand in Hannibal’s, desperate to clutch at his bare skin, as he had done scant hours before on the battlements. “Why didn’t you leave with the others when you had the chance?”

Hannibal lifts Will’s hands to his lips and kisses each palm. “Because the only thing I’m interested in is right here,” he answers after each kiss is delivered. 

Will collapses helplessly against the bars that separate them, and Hannibal wraps what little of his arms he can around the smaller man’s shaking shoulders, pleased that Will’s head can rest against his chest if he leans just the right way. 

“Listen to me, Will,” he says, his supreme adoration soaking his every word, and Will’s ears prick up for it. “Tomorrow, the French will take the Fort. Your father will be forced to surrender, and this entire troupe will be expelled from this place. When that happens, I want you to stay close to your father. If anything should happen, the Marquis will try to make sure no harm comes to the English officers.” Will shakes his head, but Hannibal shushes him. “Stay close to your father, Will. Do not try to find me. Promise me.” He snakes his hand out to lift Will’s chin, making wet blue eyes meet his own. 

“I promise,” Will finally agrees, and Hannibal pulls his chin up further until they are kissing through the bars. They break apart when a cannon explodes nearby and shakes them from their lover’s cocoon.   
Will’s gaze extends through the high cell window, where the sunrise is burning red and orange on the horizon. “The whole world is on fire, isn’t it?” he asks, and Hannibal smiles before kissing him again, and clutching him as tightly as he can from his place within the cell. 

 

In the morning, Colonel Graham parlays with the French, and it goes about as well as can be expected. The French are upon them, and General Bloom has not arrived in time to help, so the choices are clear. They can continue to fight, and when the Fort is inevitably conquered by the Marquis and his Frenchmen, no one will be spared, or the Colonel can surrender the Fort and agree to return to England, but in return they will be granted safe passage from William Henry. 

The Colonel plays as much as he is able at considering the terms, but it is obvious to him, as it is to the Marquis, that there is only one decision to be reasonably made. They shake hands on the agreement that the English will surrender the Fort, and the rest of the morning is spent in a scurry to gather their supplies and wounded, so they might leave before sunset. 

So it is that Will finds himself sitting atop a horse and riding behind his father at the beginning of a very long procession of soldiers. He cranes his neck to look behind him, desperately seeking silver hair and deep maroon eyes, but Hannibal is unseen to him this far away, and everyone at the end of the line is nothing more than a blur. Hannibal is one of those blurs. Bound as a prisoner and dragged along by a guard. 

Hours pass uneventfully and sweat streams down Will’s face beneath the late afternoon sun. He keeps checking the road unfolding behind him, every few minutes or so, unable to stop himself from seeking Hannibal, and every time he turns, he sees Frederick watching him. Will doesn’t care if his intentions are obvious; he meets Frederick’s gaze every time, glaring at him and hoping he can feel the hatred rising from him in waves. 

Frederick is a coward, and the next time he deigns to speak to him, Will will have no qualms in telling him as much. 

Time and distance stretch on, and besides the incessant drumming of the boys in the rear of the procession, their party is quiet. They are the defeated, the shamefaced, and even their marching in tandem is dulled by the lackluster footfall of failed feet.

And then the yelling begins. It is almost like music, the way the sound builds slowly until it reaches its crescendo, a deafening echo of whooping emanating from the trees surrounding the road. Will freezes in his saddle; he knows what this sound proceeds, and yet he doesn’t know what he can do to stop it. So he waits, his horse backing up nervously, and Colonel Graham mutters orders to his second in command. A tension begins to expand down the line of English as horse hooves shift anxiously over the dirt path, and muskets sling on leather straps over woolen shoulders. 

Hannibal told Will to keep close to his father, and Will is determined to keep his promise, but when the first Huron dashes from the forest, heading straight for their party with a sharp stone axe lifted above his head in a battle cry, Will’s horse rears its head and throws him from the saddle. 

Fear of the wild man is quickly replaced by fear of being crushed by panicking horses, and Will scrambles to regain his footing, and by then, a slew of Huron are flowing from their shadowy forest, faces painted red and black with blood and soot. Leading them, Will sees, as the man in front makes first contact with an officer a few paces down from Will, is Hobbs, the very man who attacked them before on the King’s road. 

Will yelps as a musket fires past his head, and he turns in time to see a native fall just behind him, the blade in his hand lifted, poised to cut Will’s throat. Frederick, the man who has shot and saved him from this swift fate, grabs Will by the arm and drags him out of the road. 

The scene plays out all too familiar, with Frederick standing guard over him while Will cowers helplessly in the grass and waits to either be killed or rescued. When a blow to the head knocks Frederick to his knees, Will jumps to his feet and runs. A bloody leg trips him, and he falls face-first into the ground, but with no time to assess his nose, which is surely gushing blood from the hard impact, Will reaches out to the pistol lying beside a dead man’s loosened fist, and grips it desperately. He pushes off the ground and braves a look over his shoulder, expecting to see Frederick’s body ripped and dead, but his eyes widen in surprise and relief when the Major is back on his feet and meeting the throw of a spear with the barrel of his musket, and knocking his attacker to his knees in defeat. 

Then Frederick turns and sees Will, and the white around his eyes grows large. Will turns around and sees the wild man approaching him with a blade. Frederick is too far away to reach him in time, so without a second’s thought or hesitation, Will lifts the pistol in his hand and squeezes the trigger. He is blown backwards, off his feet, and lands with a heavy thud a foot away, but craning his head, he sees the Huron is hit, and he falls to the ground as well, the life leaking from his gut in a staunch stream.

Gun smoke lingers in the air between them, and Will is dazed, the weapon hot in his hand, but now is not the time to lament his first kill, and the way the ambush is building around him on the road tells him it will probably not be his last today. 

He stands once more, keeping his head considerably low and his eyes peeled. Somewhere, a mile down the road where their party concludes, is Hannibal. 

 

Hannibal runs, only stopping to down the men in his path who dare attack him and keep him from Will. The first unlucky Huron to impeded Hannibal’s mad-dash is slammed into with a sharp elbow. Hannibal crushes his temple with a stomp of his foot and takes up the man’s tomahawk for himself, quickly managing to cut through his rope bindings, and then he is off once more. 

He sprints, slices down another in his way, runs, kicks off a screaming Huron, stopping this time to slit his throat. All the while, he is looking for dark curls and skin like moonlight. When he spots Colonel Graham, he pauses, hopeful that Will is nearby, as he has promised to be. But a speedy appraisal of the surrounding fight, no, massacre, reveals no sign of Will. Hannibal is about to move on when his attention is snared by the crying of a horse as it falls to its side atop its owner. 

 

Colonel Graham is crushed beneath his mount, and blood drips from the edges of his mouth, eyes fluttering up to the darkening sky. 

A shadow falls over him, the dimming sun blocked out by the body of a man standing over the Colonel with a long knife fisted in his palm. 

Hobbs kneels, straddling the Englishman’s waist. Before the Colonel has time to process what is happening, Hobbs pierces his blade through Graham’s chest and yanks it up, slicing through thick layers of flesh and sinew. Graham’s eyes are huge with shock and Hobbs thrusts in his hand, cracking back a rib with his bare hands, fishing inside the Colonel’s chest cavity. His fingers slide around a weakly thumping bundle of muscle, and he cuts it free and pulls. Blood falls on his face as he lifts the Colonel’s heart in his hand. The Colonel is conscious only long enough to stare at his own heart beating outside of his chest, and then he fades away. 

Hobbs licks the blood from the heart, and then he champions it high above his head with a triumphant holler. 

 

Will squeezes desperately at the trigger of the pistol, but it does not fire a second time, and the wild man rushes at him, knocking the weapon from his shaking hands and knocking him to his knees. 

His fist tightens, knotting in Will’s hair, and then he yanks his head back to expose the delicate white throat. The Huron’s other hand holds a knife and he places the edge of it beneath Will’s ear. 

Will does not shut his eyes. His hands reach up, groping at the man standing behind him, holding him tight for his kill. Will wonders if he will be scalped after his throat is cut. 

And then the hands gripping him loosen and the man falls away. Will turns to see him dead on the ground, a hole blown through his face. He screams with horror as a hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him up and forward. The moment before realization strikes, Will tries to run from his newest captor, but then his eyes see silver hair flying behind a tall, strong armed man, and tears streak his face with relief. 

Hannibal does not loosen his grip on Will, and they both run, away from the bloody road. 

The river is in sight when they hear the man’s voice yelling after them. 

“Stop where you are! You are still under arrest!”

Will trades a disbelieving glance with Hannibal, and they both turn their heads without stopping. Frederick is closing the distance between them, his musket raised in threat. 

Hannibal tugs at Will’s arm and they continue toward the edge of the river, where a canoe has been hidden in some underbrush. When a hidden score of Huron leap from the cover of the canoe, Hannibal throws Will to the ground and whips his musket over his chest, aims, and fires, all in one fluid motion that sends one of the attackers to the ground. With his next breath, his hand is flying around his tomahawk and aiming, and the second attacker is downed with its sharp edge lodged in his throat. The third attacker falls before Hannibal can reach him. He spins around and Frederick is standing in front of a plume of gun smoke, musket still propped against his shoulder. 

Hannibal smirks and cocks a pale eyebrow. All the attackers dead, Will rises to his feet and staggers over to Hannibal, gripping his forearm exhaustedly. 

Frederick’s face is smudged with black powder and he looks lividly between the two men. “Hannibal is still charged with sedition and under arrest.” He opens his mouth to continue but the firing of a rifle makes him stop and turn. More Huron are cresting the hill and running for them. 

Hannibal scoops up Will and tosses him into the canoe, and then he turns to Frederick. “You will have to forgo the pleasure of hanging me for now,” he says, tossing the Major an oar. 

Frederick catches it and, absent of choices, joins Hannibal in pushing the canoe out from the shore and into the river. They both jump in and place their oars in the water, just as the Huron reach the riverbank. They unearth a second hidden canoe and quickly place it in the water, heading after the feeing men. 

Will keeps his head low as Hannibal and Frederick row, their arms moving so quickly they are nearly blurs. He can hear the Huron coming after them, skilled with the canoe and gaining on them quickly. Hannibal’s breaths come in quick huffs, as do Frederick’s, and by the grace of adrenaline and good luck, they reach the opposite shore around a river bend before their pursuers, and once Hannibal helps Will to land, he and Frederick let the canoe go over a waterfall. 

Then Hannibal is holding Will’s hand, and leading their little group down a cliff face of jagged rocks. To Will’s surprise, there is a cave mouth, and he and Frederick follow Hannibal through it, and then they are on the other side of the waterfall, hidden between slick rock and the roaring cascade of water. 

The sound is deafening, and it is dark and damp. 

“What now?” Frederick asks Hannibal, who is yet to relinquish hold of Will’s hand. 

“We wait,” Hannibal answers, having to shout over the rumble of the waterfall. “With any luck, they will think we went over the waterfall. Our only hope is that they pass us by.”

“My father,” Will asks, blue eyes black in the darkness of the cave. “Did you see my father?”

Hannibal inhales sharply, remembers the sight of Colonel Graham lying on the ground, Hobbs standing over him with his heart in his hand. He grips Will’s hand tighter and brings them to the corner of the cave, farther from Frederick. He pushes a damp curl out of Will’s face. “I saw him,” he says, and Will knows by the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice, and he sees a flash of what Hannibal had seen and falls into Hannibal’s arms. 

Hannibal cradles Will’s head against his chest and smoothes his hair with what little comfort he can offer. 

Frederick stands awkwardly to the side, trying not to stare at their embrace, and then his attention is tethered by a torchlight appearing at the mouth of the cave. 

“Hannibal, William,” he says, rushing over to them. 

Hannibal narrows his eyes at the light. “They’ve found us.” He turns to Will and grasps his shoulders. “If they see me with you, they will have no mercy and kill us all. Your only chance is to be unarmed and vulnerable. I must leave you.”

Will nods, but Frederick steps toward them both, aghast. “You’re abandoning us?”

“It’s your only chance,” he says, and then he looks at Will. “They will bind you. You must allow it,” he says, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dark. “No matter what happens, no matter what they do to you, you must be strong. Survive,” he says, tightening his grip on Will, making him tremble in his arms. “I will find you.”

It is happening so quickly, and Will can hardly think, still seeing the echo of his father’s murder in his mind, and he nods at Hannibal’s words, though they scare him to death. The torches are growing brighter now, and Will can hear the approaching footsteps. Hannibal kisses him hard on the mouth and whispers in his ear. “I will find you.” And then he fastens his musket around his back and jumps straight through the curtain of the waterfall, and his body disappears. 

It is only Frederick and Will now, and they huddle close together as the Huron appear around the corner, their flames burning bright. To Will’s terror, Hobbs is leading them. He surveys the English officer and Colonel Graham’s kin, and gestures for his men to grab them. Frederick is knocked to the ground, but Will is not. They only slip a rope over his neck and usher him forward. Behind him, Frederick’s hands are bound and he is pulled roughly to his feet. They are led from the secret cave behind the falls. Will looks over the edge of the waterfall, to the foamy white banks far below. He sees no sign of Hannibal. His throat burns as he is pulled forward by the rope lead.


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal plunges from the water, and takes hold against a slick rock. He pulls himself up, his body sore as he drags himself from the rapids. He sucks in one strained breath and coughs up water, and then he rises to his feet, his clothes soaking and heavy. He lifts his head, strands of silver dripping water down the sharp angles of his face. He looks to the top of the waterfall from which he has just jumped, not seeing Will or the others, but knowing where they are being taken all the same. 

On top of the mountain, there is a village, and in the village there is a Huron chieftain. Hobbs will be taking them there for permission, to either have them killed or enslaved. Hannibal checks the powder keg for his musket, and then his wet feet slap against rock as he begins his ascent back up the rocks. If he is to reach Will by the time they reach the Huron camp, he will have to be as quick as the flowing water. 

 

The rope chafes against Will’s tender skin, and he knows his neck is rubbed pink and raw from where Hobbs yanks him forward. All night they walk, and Will can barely see his feet below him as they make their way up a winding mountain passage.   
After miles of walking, of being dragged, the land becomes flat again, and Hobbs leads Will into a clearing. It is a village. He hears Frederick’s wheezing, strained breaths behind him as they are both walked through the rows and rows of huts.   
They are stopped before a man sitting high on a chair, a throne of sorts, on a wooden dais. The man lifts his hand to speak, and that is when the catcalls begin from the entrance of the Huron village. 

 

Hannibal approaches the village boldly, with his back straight and his chin lifted. The Huron gawk at him, but then they grow violent, and a few of the younger men beat at him with their tomahawks. One digs bluntly into his shoulder, and Hannibal falls to his knees to a cheer of amused hollers. But he stands back up, though he is staggering, and keeps walking forward. He is beaten again, slapped across his face, as he continues to walk, but eventually his feet bring him to the base of the dais. Will sees him and gapes, wide-eyed.   
The man on the high chair, the chieftain, nods in recognition of the newest arrival, and Hobbs sneers angrily. 

“Hobbs. What have you brought to me today?” he asks. His voice is weathered and deep. 

“I gift the chieftain with an English officer and Colonel Graham’s only child. They will be worthy sacrifices to the Huron people,” Hobbs says, delighting as he pushes Will forward. 

Hannibal speaks, his voice lifting high over the murmurs of gathering spectators. “I am a worthier sacrifice,” he tells the chieftain. “I offer my life in exchange for theirs.”

The chieftain squints at Hannibal, and then begins speaking in a language Hannibal does not follow. He sees Frederick watching with a gleam of understanding in his eyes. 

“Frederick, you speak the language?” he asks, and the Major nods warily. “Tell him what I said. My life for Will’s. Please.”

Frederick nods and speaks to the chieftain, who pauses thoughtfully before standing up from his throne. Again he speaks, and the group of Huron goes wild, their voices rising excitedly, and everything begins happening at once. 

Will is dragged away again by an angry looking Hobbs, and Frederick is grabbed by the nape of his neck and pulled away. Hannibal stands, confused, as he is left untouched. 

“I told you to tell them to take me!” Hannibal yells after Frederick, who is being manhandled to a pole in the center of the village. “I said to take me instead!”

But Frederick does nothing but smile sadly and find Will’s face beyond the crowd. 

Will is being dragged away by his rope lead, but he twists against Hobbs’s hold. He sees Frederick as he is lifted up on a great wooden pole, his wrists tied to spread his arms wide, like a crucifix. Smoke   
begins to unfurl from around his feet. He is being burned at the stake. 

“No!” Will yells, and the last thing he sees of Frederick are his eyes sliding shut as the smoke hides his face. He turns to look for Hannibal, and cannot see him, already they are so far from the center of the village. And then he hears a gun shot. 

 

Hannibal stands outside the village and lowers his musket. Frederick’s body slumps against the stake, dead from Hannibal’s hand before the fire can burn him. It is a small mercy, but the only one Hannibal can afford to give. Now he must find Will, who is being led away by Hobbs and his war party. 

He runs through the trees, over the twisting roots, until the rich soil makes way for rough stone as he reaches the mountain’s edge. He can see Hobbs just ahead. He lifts his musket and braces it against his shoulder and fires. A Huron goes down, his body sliding and falling over the cliff’s edge. 

 

Will hears the musket and turns. The skin of his throat burns as it strains against the tight rope, but when he sees Hannibal running for them, the pain doesn’t matter, and he pulls against the rope harder, nearly ripping it from Hobbs’s grip. 

Hobbs is taken aback, and his grip increases on the rope. He yanks Will down to his knees before him. He has planned to take Will to another Huron chieftain on the other side of the river, but now that he thinks of it, it may be more gratifying to simply toss the insolent child over the edge of the cliff and be done with it. 

Will senses the murderous intent in Hobbs’s eyes, and he shifts slightly, gauging Hannibal’s distance from him. He is too far away, though he runs quickly, and Will knows he will be dead before he can be reached. Unless he acts.

Perhaps because it is fate, or perhaps because it is so completely dismissed as a possibility from Hobbs’s mind, Will is able to unsheathe the dagger at Hobbs’s waist and thrust it into the man’s stomach. Hobbs stares at young man on his knees before him as he smiles wickedly through his sweaty curls and yanks the knife sideways, ripping flesh and stomach lining so Hobbs’s insides slip free and smack wetly against the ground. 

Only then does Will stand and remove the rope from around his neck. He kicks Hobbs’s body and it rolls. He kicks it again until it falls, and then it is vanishing over the edge of the cliff. 

He hears the sounds of fighting at his back, but he does not bother to turn around. He knows it is Hannibal finishing off the rest of the Huron. 

In mere moments, he feels Hannibal at his back, and he leans into the hands as they run down the arch of his back, then he turns.

Hannibal’s breath catches in his throat. Will has blood on his face, and down the front of his shirt. He is beautiful. 

“And I am yours,” Will says, finishing Hannibal’s thought as if it had been his own. 

Hannibal cups Will’s cheek, smearing a drop of blood over his soft skin. Will runs his hands through Hannibal’s hair and pulls him near so their foreheads rest together. 

“Mine,” Hannibal whispers. 

They stand on top of the mountain and watch the sun lower in the sky, and then Hannibal lifts Will’s chin and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> This is totally rushed, but after they got it on, I completely lost steam. But I didn't want to leave it forever with no conclusion. So please forgive me. If you want to listen to the music of Hannibal running up a freaking mountain to find Will, here's the link. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1ryJDVuZ6k
> 
> I love you, Dayo! <3 And thanks to everyone who read this self-indulgence. xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't post this and NOT include a link to some music, since this movie's musical score is one of my favorites of all time. If you're interested, this is the music playing while Hannibal runs through the forest hunting stags: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RP-WeX6kMWE&list=PLTp1_PijDm8q00pyaloKeEpxBBjmHSAOc
> 
> I'm artbyvictoriaskye on tumblr! Let's make merry. http://artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com/


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